


Grattachecca

by hannibalsketches



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, CONTAINS HEADCANONS ON WHAT I THINK HAPPENED TO EVERYONE, Grief, Hannigram - Freeform, I am so sorry, M/M, Missing someone, Parallels, Post Finale, Two-Shot, post mizumono, this is so short omg, wills jacket headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsketches/pseuds/hannibalsketches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war was over, but their battles had just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Only Holding On By A Thin Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Grattachecca- A popular cold dessert in Italy, consisting of scratched ice flavored with sweet sciroppo.

There's something to be said for waking up in a cold sweat, breathlessly whispering the name of a man who cut you so deep, you can't sew the peices back together again.

Then again, Will Graham wasn't one for listening to what others had to say.

He's back in Wolf Trap, after spending nearly three months in the hospital, struggling to mend his stomach- and his life back together. All he wants is to go back, reverse what was written before. Will knew there was going to be a fight, but Hannibal created a slaughter. Jack couldn't talk for weeks, Alana was coratically blind. He felt Abigail die in his hands. And it was all his fault.

Will rises, stirring a few pups in the process. He stumbles to the fridge, now a permanent house for up to four bottles of liquor at a time, and selects one, tilting it back with no concern for its bite. His legs tangle as he collapses on the under-used sofa.

Hannibal was bouncing around in his head, filling his thoughts, suffocating him. It could be the booze, but Will knew where this road was headed, he had walked it many times before.

Soundlessly, he pads into the guest room, wiggling one of the floorboards loose to retrieve it. A lost peice of his past. Hannibal's jacket.

He remembered the nurse coming in with it, mistaking it amongst the blood for his own. She was visibly shaken from her visit, so he took it without complaint. He had mentally promised himself to burn it, invite everyone over to roast marshmallows even. Yet here the damn thing was, hidden in his home.

He resumes his position, placing the folded jacket on the cushion nearby. Will lifts the bottle, drinking until his vision burns. He groans, leaning on his knees, head in his hands.

What kind of sick, twisted person kept a memoir of his offender?

The familiar warmth of alcohol is settling in on Will now, numbing his painful thoughts, watering them down until he's sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his shoulders and rocking back and forth. The overwhelming ache settles in his bones, and he reaches for the nearest thing to ground him.

Hannibal's coat.

Will presses it to his face, breathing in its essence. He never knew how powerful scent could be, until now. It transports him, back to tiny nuances in a once dark, but true friendship. Their first encounter, where he honestly thought the man wasn't worth another thought, the  time Hannibal looked at him, bloodied and full of concern, even sprinkles of shared laughs and quips that he just simply couldn't find greet him in the pheromones. There are damper, darker undertones as well. The feeling of seeing Hannibal free, while he was seen as the murderer, a sharp sting of cool steel slicing his abdomen, shame for betraying him in the first place.

Will wails into the fabric, drowning it in tears of anguish, of resentment, of grief. He had to face the truth.

He missed Hannibal Lecter.

 


	2. I Hear You Calling In the Dead of Night

 

The rainy nights in Florence are perhaps works of art in their own right; the puddles littering the streets form a perfect mirror of the city. Sometimes, you can catch the citizens looking into their alternate world, lost in a haze that looks silly from afar, but entirely serious to them. Tonight, there's a lone man there, sulking in the shadows, completely entranced by his own reflection. He has every right to be, too.

He's Hannibal Lecter, and he has lost himself.

Instead of a crisp, polished, well dressed man, he sees a stranger, with a full beard and long flowing shirts. He's been peering mournfully into the water for months, a hidden weakness in his unstoppable demeanor.

Sometimes, tears ripple the surface.Tonight they do.

If he's caught staring, Hannibal will retreat, back to the house of his companion, Dr. Bedalia Du Maurier. She's changed too; her voluptuous blonde locks are now a short earthy ginger, and her mischievous smirks seem to come less and less often. Hannibal doesn't spare her any second glances, ascending to his office.

He shuts the door, then sits,skimming through the only sketchbook he managed from the states. There's plenty of memories in it. However, a traced copy of an odd clock sends the fugitive sour. Hannibal clenches his fists, a painful scowl contorts his face. He leafs through the pages, stopping when he finds another drawing. In it, a rumpled man sits in a chair, face slack with sleep. It was one of Hannibal's old therapy chairs, and the man, one of his old patients. A calloused finger traces the sketch.

Silently, he closes the book, pulling back to retrieve something from the bottom drawer. The see-through plastic shines like the puddles outside.

Hannibal slowly unzips the pouch, picking up the object of his desire as if it were an infant. To the blind eye, it was just a jacket, but to Hannibal, it was a reminder.

He lifts the garment to his face, inhaling deep. Immediately, pheromones burst, atrocious aftershave,  and old blood being a few. He breathes it in again to reveal fear, pain, and maybe even love.

Tears mingle on the fabric, silent sobs trickle into the evening air. It's sliced by Dr. Du Maurier's articulate words, and Hannibal can hear the broken hearted half smile.

"You miss him."

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a combination of Overjoyed by Bastille (Hannibal) and Sad by Maroon 5 (Will) whilst writing this sad fest. I really recommend listening to them! Based on some posts on Tumblr, and my own angsty mind.
> 
> Title idea comes from the general notion that people eat cold sweet things when they're sad.


End file.
